THE ARYANS OF SARIKOL
A SARIKOLI LOVE SONG
1
Alas, my unfaithful Love!
Alas, my inconstant Heaven!
I am become thin as a blade of grass from craving for thee.
2
Oh, thou heavenly Beauty
Whose ears are adorned with gold,
Would that I might become thy closest companion.
3
Thy breasts are as a newly plucked apple.
Oh, mount thy swift steed and ride with me.
When its shoes are worn, I will replace them with silver.
We left the Russian Pamirs by a pass that seemed, when we reached its
summit, to have an almost interminable descent, as we saw miles of a
stony track stretching out below our feet. Half-way down we were met by
a contingent of tribesmen clad in long red, blue, yellow, or crimson
coats, with the white felt Kirghiz hats or leather and sheepskin caps,
their bedding of vividly coloured felts being strapped on to their
saddles; and when we finally emerged from the long winding valley,
great Muztagh Ata was so close that it seemed as if we could easily
ride up to its snow-line. We were now back again in the delightful
uplands of Chinese Turkestan, and for the first time for many days we
saw what might by courtesy be called a house. It consisted of two dark
and dirty rooms opening into a squalid courtyard surrounded by a mud
wall, and I felt that the Kirghiz _akhoi_ was a far preferable dwelling
to this, as it can be moved from place to place and its surroundings
are thus kept clean. In the few instances where the Kirghiz had built
a walled enclosure for their flocks, and in consequence occupied the
same camping ground permanently, the place was quite uninhabitable for
Europeans.
We made one of our longest halts on the fine grazing grounds of
Tagharma, a broad plain with encampments at intervals. A group of
_akhois_ had been prepared for us, and a big crowd welcomed my
brother as we rode into camp, many Sarikolis having ridden over from
Tashkurghan, their capital, some sixteen miles off, to greet him. We
were now at an altitude of some nine thousand feet, and the lassitude
and the “hand-at-my-throat” feeling that I had experienced on the Roof
of the World left me entirely, and I revelled in the delicious weather,
which was neither too hot nor too cold. It was delightful to stroll
about the valley in the evenings, my heavy fur coat and wool-lined
boots being no longer needed, and I was charmed with the sheets of
mauve primulas, the big white cistus, white and mauve anemones, pretty
blue daisies with yellow centres, millions of little cream flowers with
a most deceptive resemblance to a daisy, the familiar dandelion, and
others. In the hills I came across a curious plant, dark brownish-red,
the size and shape of a sheep’s tongue, which had no leaves, but pushed
its way out of the sandy soil. It was rough to the touch when pulled
up, but white and fleshy under the outer skin, and was heavy, with no
distinctive smell.
One day the Kirghiz gave a display of the _baigu_, or “goat game,”
which is the national form of sport. A goat was killed, and after
its head and entrails had been removed and all its bones broken,
the skin was stitched up and it was then thrown into the middle of
a throng of men mounted on their wiry little ponies who constituted
the _mêlée_. The first man that succeeded in picking it up tucked it
under his thigh, holding it with one hand while he rode off, pursued
by the others eager to wrest it from him. If he managed to keep his
booty while he galloped round a flag and returned to the goal, he
won the round and the game began afresh. The riders often held their
short-handled whips in their mouths in order to have the right hand
free when they bent down from their saddles to seize the goat, but
owing to the shortness of their stirrups they had not particularly
good seats and seemed to come off easily. I noticed that there was no
excitement on the part of the ponies, and their masters could keep
them at a canter only by tugging at their mouths, using the whip and
belabouring their sides with their long boots. We watched the game
from the far side of a stream that surrounded the playing-ground, but
every now and again were obliged to retreat hurriedly; for some of the
performers would plunge into the rivulet with a great splashing, or
even leap it, and ride amuck among the spectators. Our servants and
the large crowd of onlookers did their best with shouts and crackings
of whips to keep the players to their own side of the water; but the
Kirghiz were half mad with excitement, yelling, shrieking,
pulling at one another, and never ceasing to urge their unfortunate
ponies.
[Illustration: THE GAME OF _BAIGU_--THE MÊLÉE. _Page 150(a)._]
[Illustration: THE GAME OF _BAIGU_--THE PICK-UP. _Page 150(b)._]
[Illustration: THE GAME OF _BAIGU_--THE VICTOR. _Page 150(c)._]
My brother gave a coloured silk handkerchief to the victor of each
round, a gift much appreciated, and when these were used up, lengths of
fine white mull muslin were awarded, which would be used by the women,
who had been left in the _akhois_, to wind on the framework of their
headgear. After about an hour, seeing that the grass-fed ponies were
becoming exhausted, he offered one big prize for a round that was to
be the last, and so the game closed. The lofty mountains that ringed
us made a glorious background to an animated scene that was full of
colour, the riders fastening back the skirts of their gay coats to get
them out of the way and thus displaying the brilliant linings.
_Baigu_ did not commend itself to me when I learnt that the ponies
were often forced to play for four hours on end, and were then tightly
tied up and left without food and water until the next morning, when
they were turned loose to graze. In fact, the inhabitants of Chinese
Turkestan struck us as very bad horse-masters, and one might almost
say that their ideal was for their unlucky animals to have no food, no
drink, and no rest. For example: the practice was to tie up the heads
of the baggage animals when they reached the halting-place, the poor
things being left without food and water for a period in proportion to
the length of the march. If possible their masters never allowed them
to lie down, stirring them up if they did so during grazing, and tying
them up tightly at night, the idea being that the legs of a horse swell
if he is allowed to repose himself. Again and again I have seen horses
tethered to trees growing on high banks, the poor animals being left in
discomfort for hours owing to the uncertain foothold.
My brother had a constant struggle to induce our grooms to water our
horses during our long mid-day halts, old Jafar Bai asserting that they
would go lame if allowed to drink. On one occasion when my particular
mount took to limping he was very triumphant, and told every one that
it was owing to our way of flying in the face of custom with regard
to the water question. But his triumph was short-lived, for when the
grey’s shoe was removed it was found that the farrier had cut the hoof
ruthlessly in order to make it fit the shoe--a common practice. My
brother’s plan of picketing our animals with long ropes while grazing
also came in for much censure, and was said to be the cause of any
malady that the water theory did not cover.
As we had not tasted fresh fish since leaving Europe, we enjoyed a
large but somewhat tasteless variety that was caught in the river
which meandered through the Tagharma Valley, and thought it would be
interesting to do some angling ourselves. We had brought fishing-rods
with us, having been told that the rivers simply swarmed with a
species of trout, and one afternoon, when the heat of the day was
over, we sallied forth attended by a horde of bare-legged Kirghiz who
carried our landing-net, and who so scared the few fish we saw that
not a single nibble rewarded our efforts. On enquiry I found that the
natives, who evidently scorned our orthodox methods, were accustomed to
dam up the shallow river in suitable places with clods of earth, making
a _cul de sac_ into which they drove the fish, which then fell an easy
prey.
It was a proud day for Nadir when we left Tagharma to go to
Tashkurghan, his native place. I was sorry to leave the pleasant
grassy valley dotted with groups of _akhois_, from which shaggy dogs
in charge of the flocks of sheep and goats rushed out to bark at us.
Nearer and nearer we approached the mountains, until we reached a gorge
through which ran the Sarikol River. This defile led us into the wide
Sarikol Valley, where we were met by a big group of its inhabitants
headed by the _Aksakal_, or British Agent, a native of Lahore. They
had as usual erected a tent, and pressed _pillaus_, tea, sweetmeats,
and little squares of tough native bread upon us. Nadir, who was a
kind of understudy to the _Aksakal_, with the title of Watchman,
proudly brought his little son to show me. He had been met by three
generations of strikingly handsome relatives, and all round us were
Persian-speaking Aryans with no resemblance whatever to the surrounding
Kirghiz tribes. They were handsome, well-built men and youths, with
aquiline noses, clear-cut features, fine dark eyes and thick black
beards and moustaches; and one and all looked intelligent and alert.
As we rode past the cemetery on our way to camp, I noticed that the
tombs were more ornate than those of the Kirghiz, and was struck by
curious clay erections at one end of them which reminded me of rabbits
sitting up. These, I was told, were intended to hold lights, a custom
which had nothing to do with Mohamedan practice, but probably was
borrowed from Buddhism.
Our _akhois_ were pitched on a stretch of grazing near a branch of
the river which cuts up the valley with its numerous tributaries and
is so deep, and runs so swiftly in summer, that every year without
fail it takes a toll of human and animal life. High above us towered
the long ridge on which Tashkurghan is built. As the town is printed
in large type on all the maps I was surprised to find it but a small
collection of dilapidated mud houses, many of which were in ruins. It
is, however, the spot alluded to by the Chinese traveller Hiuen-Tsiang,
who visited it in the seventh century. On the highest point stood
a large castellated Chinese fort, and not far off, in an equally
dominating position, was the small Russian fort, where an officer, his
wife, and a troop of Cossacks were quartered. The young captain called
upon us, saying that his wife had not seen a European woman for two
years, and asked us to dine with them that evening, while in our turn
we entertained them in camp. They must have led a very dreary life as
they were cut off almost completely from the outer world, and there are
but few resources in the Sarikol Valley, especially during the long
winter. The Russian lady was delighted to meet me, though, as she could
speak no language save her own, conversation was very difficult. She
took me into her tiny garden, a walled-in plot which the Cossacks had
cleared of boulders and in which a few poplar saplings and some minute
cabbages and lettuces were struggling to gain a livelihood from the
barren ground. It almost brought the tears to my eyes when she pointed
out with intense pride a solitary bloom of mignonette, the only flower
in this mockery of a garden, though it was mid-July. To amuse me she
told the Cossacks to release a couple of wolf-cubs kept in a den in the
courtyard, and when the poor little beasts made a dash for liberty I
secretly hoped that they would escape, in spite of the Persian proverb
which says, “To be kind to the wolf is to be cruel to the lamb.”
Though the Chinese Governor met my brother when he entered Tashkurghan,
providing tea for him on the road and calling upon him, he was
evidently unwilling to admit Europeans into the fort, and gave what I
imagine must be the stock excuse, that he had not the wherewithal to
entertain an English guest. When I read Sir Thomas Gordon’s account of
his visit to Sarikol in _The Roof of the World_, I was struck by the
fact that the Chinese Governor of that day--it was 1874--put off Sir
Thomas and his party with the same excuse when they wished to return
his call.
The Sarikolis are Mohamedans of the Ismaili sect, and acknowledge the
Agha Khan as their spiritual head. They talk Persian with a somewhat
uncouth accent, and the very warm welcome they gave my brother was
partly due to their delight at hearing him speak the Persian of Persia.
One day we crossed the many branches of the river and clambered up a
steep neck in the hills in order to have a view of the long valley
leading up to the stony Taghdumbash Pamir. At our feet small hamlets
were dotted about, surrounded by badly-grown crops of wheat, barley,
peas, lucerne and mustard. The plant last mentioned is grown for its
oil, which is used in the little native lamps, and I was told that
the Sarikolis show traces of their fire-worshipping ancestry by never
blowing out a flame, thus copying the practice of the Zoroastrians. I
was much interested to find in this backwater of the world a close
connection with the bygone legends of Persia, Nadir informing us that
Mount Afrasiab was the name of the hill behind us, and pointing out a
hill of remarkable shape just opposite across the valley, saying that
it was Besitun, the scene of Ferhad’s almost impossible engineering
feat. Let me tell this famous legend of old Persia as far as possible
in his own words:
Now King Afrasiab[2] greatly loved the fair Shirin his wife and cared
for no other woman, and his wrath was kindled when he perceived that
her beauty had cast a spell over Ferhad the architect, who became as a
man distraught. Near the palace of the monarch lay Mount Besitun and
behind it was a stream that ran down from the hills above and gave the
mighty king an idea by which to cure the vain passion of his servant.
Therefore he summoned Ferhad to his presence and swore to him that if
he could bore a tunnel in the mountain through which the stream could
run he should have the lovely Queen as his reward.
Afrasiab knew that the task was not in the power of man to perform,
but love increased the strength of Ferhad an hundredfold, and at the
end of a year the tunnel was nigh completion and the king was greatly
alarmed. At last he thought of a plan by which he hoped to keep his
beloved wife and yet not break his royal oath. Therefore, one day when
Ferhad was in a perilous position on the face of the rock, a royal
servant suddenly announced to him that beautiful Shirin was dead; and
her lover, losing his foothold from the shock, fell headlong from the
mountain and was killed on the spot.
There was also a further proof of the work of Ferhad in the shape of a
long furrow on a rock, which all the inhabitants believed was made by
the Persian’s chisel.
[Illustration: NASIR ALI KHAN, A _MUKI_ OF SARIKOL. _Page 156._]
While we enjoyed the wide view from our eyrie and listened to
Nadir we became aware that an old man in a flowered coat, snowy
turban and slippers, was struggling up the steep track, helped along
by two servants. It was the _muki_, the priest of the Sarikolis,
and a man of great importance in the valley, as I grasped when our
_shikari_ hastened to meet him and kissed his hands and those of his
servants. The old gentleman, panting with his exertions, had come to
offer us hospitality and insisted that we should descend and drink
tea in his house. We were soon ushered into a little plastered room
with an elaborately carved wooden ceiling and seated ourselves at a
table covered with a red silk cloth, on which were biscuits, raisins,
almonds, and loaf sugar, three or four lumps of which the servants
tried to put into the little Russian glasses of tea which they handed
us. The principal men of the district squatted on the floor and
listened as the _muki_ told my brother how he travelled every two years
to India bearing the offerings of the Faithful to the Agha Khan. Our
host was very anxious for us to wait while his invisible womenkind
prepared a feast in our honour. Though we declined this invitation our
visit did good; for two brothers, rich landowners who had long been at
enmity with one another, became reconciled that morning when they met
to pay their respects to the Consul.
On our return to camp I received the _Aksakal’s_ wife, a Kashgar woman
who came gorgeously attired in an embroidered blue silk coat and
brought her three children with her. One was a most attractive little
girl of five, dressed in a striped silk coat with gold embroidered
green velvet cap, under which hung her four black plaits of hair.
She enjoyed looking at our illustrated papers, and where children
were depicted she pointed them out as being herself or her brothers,
according to size. When Sattur gave her tea she was imperative about
the quantity of milk and the number of lumps of sugar that she wanted,
and I was thankful that she condescended to approve of the strings of
coral that I gave her and allowed me to fill her pockets and those of
her brothers with fancy biscuits.
The Sarikolis are very fond of music and dancing, and a troupe of
youths led by a man who banged the drum in masterly fashion performed
for our amusement. A couple played on pipes and the others sang many
songs interspersed with dances, one small boy doing most complicated
steps and waving his arms gracefully. All had their hands hidden by
the sleeves of their thick blue, red, buff, or striped coats, and
wore white felt Kirghiz hats with black brims, and either leather or
clumsy felt riding boots. They sang with great _entrain_ and some of
the tunes were very pleasing, though monotonous, while others had a
curious accompaniment of howls--I can describe it in no other way. The
performance lasted for hours, and every now and then the troupe divided
into two groups which sang alternately to one another something in this
style:
First Group: “Your cheeks are like tulips.”
Second Group: “Your eyes are dark as spring-water.”
Only the old people remember the songs of war and fighting; for now the
young are not interested in these and only care to listen to themes of
love. Iftikhar Ahmad kindly took down for me the words of two of these
songs, one of which forms the heading of this chapter. This is the
other:
_The Song_
Oh, my faithless Beloved whose garments are of gold
The whole world is praising you,
You are indeed the daughter of your mother.
Your silver head-dress gleams;
Your teeth are white as pearls,
And your lips red as coral.
Oh, beautiful one with the dancing eyes!
_Chorus_
I praise you, but the world blames you.
You enter the feast with pomp.
Your cloak is of silk and your turban is wound twice round your head.
My love is fairer than all other women.
A good mother has given birth to a most beautiful daughter.
On her bosom she wears pearls.
These pearls are gifts from me.
Her boots are scarlet of the softest leather,
And she is attired in a cloak from India.
[Illustration: SARIKOLI DANCERS. _Page 158._]
Nowadays the Sarikol Valley is at peace. The walled town on the ridge
is half in ruins, while the defences of the villages below are full of
breaches and most of its former inhabitants live outside it.
The Sarikolis make but a scanty livelihood in their beloved valley.
It is covered with snow during several months of the year, and their
meagre crops of wheat, barley and peas were plentifully mixed with
weeds. Their women enjoy a good position and are not veiled; monogamy
is the custom of the country and divorce is rare. They are a hospitable
race, and when a man gives a feast he never appears at it, and comes
into the room only when it is over, at the urgent appeal of his guests.
When these thank him he says that the collation he has set before them
is merely “a refuge beneath a rock,” and when the guests depart he
speeds them on their way with the wish that their “road may be white.”
They have a curious custom of placing a newly-born child in a skin full
of powdered cow-dung, its head only being left outside. The contents
of the bag are changed every day, and during the winter a hot stone is
placed at the feet of the infant.
When the time came for us to leave, my chief regret was that I must bid
farewell to the particular view of Muztagh Ata seen from our camp, its
snowy dome seeming to block up one end of the valley and looking its
grandest and most majestic, especially in the moonlight.
Our servants were now very efficient. Jafar Bai was an invaluable
packer, and so ready to turn his hand to any job that I always fancied
he was put upon by the other servants. He looked after our interests
in every way, and was so trustworthy that I often handed him the keys
of the store-boxes to give out supplies if I were busy. I would not
have granted the same privilege to lusty Daoud, who purloined all he
could and always said that he had _hich_, or nothing, in his particular
store-box. Indeed my old factotum once neatly summed up the contrast
between my cook and my butler by remarking, “Daoud always tells you
that he has nothing, but Sattur always has everything.”
Daoud, however, could rise to an occasion, and he invariably surpassed
himself if we had guests; but honest Sattur took a pride in making our
tea, sugar, and so on, last as long as possible. He was more like a
child than a grown-up man with wife and family dependent upon him, and
at first he used to bring one cup or plate at a time from his boxes,
when laying the table or producing tiffin in the open. We remonstrated
about his slow method, and one day he arrived carrying everything in a
coloured table-cloth and laughing softly to himself as he pictured our
surprise at his cleverness.
On the return journey to Kashgar our first camp was at Issak Boulak,
a secluded little valley high up in the hills. The name means Hot
Springs, and we reached it by crossing a series of steep nullahs, up
and down the crumbling banks of which our horses had to scramble,
as our guide could find no track. At last we arrived at a fold of
the mountains, within which was an orange-coloured stream fed by hot
sulphur springs that gushed out of the hillside at a temperature of
150° Fahrenheit. My brother and I clambered up to the source of the
water, and I dipped a finger cautiously into one of the two springs
that were bursting out of the barren rock and pouring into a big pool
below, which is visited by sufferers from rheumatism, who sit all day
in the hot water. Sattur brought a can of almost boiling water for my
bath, bursting into giggles as he poured it in, so mirth-inspiring did
he find this labour-saving phenomenon.
Issak Boulak was an isolated spot at the back of beyond, and behind our
camp a long twisting defile led into the very heart of the mountains,
making me hope to come across some wild creature as we turned corner
after corner; but the only sign of life was a hawk that swooped so
low as to brush my hat. All the birds we saw during our tour were
wonderfully tame. Hoopoes and choughs flew close as if to observe
us, the pretty yellow wagtails merely hopped aside as we passed, the
cheery desert-larks almost let us tread upon them, while pigeons and
partridges had little fear of the gun.
At our halt at Subashi I had my first experience of riding a yak, or
_kutass_. Though I had watched these creatures with their formidable
horns moving with ungainly gait over their pastures and had laughed
at the uncouth gambols of their calves at play, I had no wish for a
more intimate acquaintance with them. But one morning, as we looked
at the tremendous mass of Muztagh Ata, my brother proposed that we
should try to reach one of the glaciers that hang on its mighty slopes,
and accordingly we set off mounted on yaks. Instead of a bridle, the
animal has a rope passed through the cartilage of the nose, and, though
this is sufficient for the experienced, in the case of novices it is
necessary to have the mount led. I sat astride on the peaked Chinese
saddle, and found the movement of the _kutass_ comfortable though
slow, and we were soon working our way up the flank of the mountain
without track of any kind. The ugly, good-tempered Kirghiz who led my
yak wore a padded cotton coat striped with scarlet, blue, black and
yellow; his long riding-boots were of red leather, and his velvet cap
both lined and bordered with fur, while a cloth tied round his waist
held his knife and various odds and ends, among which was a hunch of
native bread. “I don’t know Persian,” he remarked to me in that tongue,
and “I do not speak Turki” was my reply; but in spite of the language
difficulty we understood one another quite well, and I did my part in
urging my mount when it hung back and pulled at the nose-rope. It was a
long stiff climb to reach the glacier, and all the yaks were panting,
grunting and gnashing their teeth before we dismounted and stumbled
over the mass of big boulders that were hurled in confusion one upon
another just below the immensely thick curtain of ice. The altitude
took my breath away, even the hardy Kirghiz complained of splitting
headaches, and a big yellow dog, guardian doubtless of some flocks
feeding on the scanty grazing below, made a sudden appearance and gave
vent to the most lugubrious howls. The Kirghiz never venture into the
fastnesses of Muztagh Ata, believing the “Father of the Snows” to be
haunted by fairies, by camels of supernatural whiteness, and by the
sound of drums, this last being possibly the thunder of avalanches. It
was thrilling to be on the slopes of this great mountain, its crest as
yet unscaled by any human being, in spite of the efforts of Sir Aurel
Stein, and we were entranced with the magnificent mountain panorama
from our point of vantage. As the descent was very steep we remounted
our yaks, and my brother led off along the mountain side. But my
guide was of an enterprising nature, and to my horror we started down
what appeared to me to be a sheer precipice. Expostulations were of
no avail; he turned a deaf ear to them; so I rammed my feet into the
stirrups, leant back as far as I could, and clung to the pommel of
my saddle, feeling that I might at any moment be flung over the head
of my steed. I confess that my heart was in my mouth as my _kutass_
accomplished the descent in a series of long slides, always recovering
itself when I imagined that it was just about to fall headlong and
bring us both to disaster. My opinion of it as a mount was unbounded,
and it crowned its perfections by picking its way unerringly among the
boulders that were piled up on either side of the glacier stream along
which our route lay. Wild rhubarb was growing in profusion, and I made
my boy gather it, as we had not tasted fresh fruit or vegetables for
some weeks, and the Russian jam I had bought at Kashgar had fermented
and gone off like bombs when the bottles were opened, though Daoud’s
apricot conserve had borne the long journey perfectly.
[Illustration: MUZTAGH ATA--THE SNOUT OF A GLACIER. _Page 162._]
We had had a superb view from the flank of Muztagh Ata, but nothing
to compare with that which we enjoyed from the shore of Little Lake
Karakul that lies at the foot of this giant of the Pamirs. Here to
the north stood up in all its grandeur the great mountain barrier
separating us from Kashgar, which we had looked upon as some enchanting
vision when seen at rare intervals from the roof of the Consulate. The
“Father of the Snows” and its rival--the natives call it Kungur--rose
sheer from the lake, in company with peak behind peak, all nobly
serrated and wrapped in eternal snow. Guardians of the Roof of the
World, their proud virginal crests, as yet untrodden by the foot of the
explorer, offer an indescribable attraction to him who has felt the
lure of the Inaccessible.
[Illustration: A KIRGHIZ AND HIS DAUGHTER. _Page 164._]
Our tour was now drawing to a close. I felt a keen regret at leaving
our free life in these uplands and exchanging an _akhoi_ for a house,
and I had also become fond of the friendly Kirghiz. These people are
most devoted to their children. In one camp the _Beg_ brought his
little daughter to see me, and my guest played tune after tune on her
rough home-made _sitar_, her fingers working with wonderful agility.
In fact, her repertoire was so extensive that I feared the performance
would never end; so I showed her a string of coral, which made her
stop short in a glow of rapturous excitement. It was pretty to see her
holding out the ornament to her proud father and then whispering in
his ear to ask him to express her thanks, and finally putting on the
necklace with shy smiles for the donor. A sturdy boy, some twelve years
old, also rises in my memory, son of a _Beg’s_ wife. This lady, who, I
was told, practically ruled the tribe, was most pleasant and voluble
and called upon me with her boy, bringing offerings of dirty lumps
of cheese, a skin of rancid fat, and a strip of woven carpet. It was
the fifth day of Ramazan and she expressed much regret that the fast
forbade her to sample my tea and biscuits; but Kuli did full justice
to everything, drinking with loud noises and waving his teaspoon
excitedly, as he had never seen such an object and could not understand
its use. Next day I noticed that he was taking an active part in the
“goat game,” a green silk handkerchief that I had given his mother
being tied round his waist. His father was giving the performance in
my brother’s honour, and the players accompanied us as we left their
encampment for a new halting-place.
The game began with a series of wild yells, and so recklessly did the
players dash about that we were really in danger of being ridden down,
in spite of shouts of warning from Jafar Bai and our Kirghiz guide.
To our amusement Daoud joined in, forcing his pony into a reluctant
canter; but, as he could not bend low enough from the saddle to pick up
the goat when it lay on the ground, he was jeered at by Sattur and our
less ambitious followers. The game finally ended on the shore of Lake
Bulunkul, which is so choked up with sand from the hills rising close
to it that, when we crossed, we found it practically dry ground with
shallow streams meandering over its bed. It was towards the end of July
and our horses were tormented by horse-flies, which we avoided as best
we could by cantering whenever the rough ground allowed. In camp the
grass was full of mosquitoes, which as we walked rose up in swarms and
fastened upon us greedily. Luckily their bite was mild, and as this was
our only experience of these pests we could not complain. Since we had
left Lake Bulunkul we had made, as it were, a loop and returned again
to Kuntigmas, where we halted for two days in order to meet Sir Aurel
Stein, who was bound for the Russian Pamirs and Persia.
We could not return to Kashgar by way of the Gez defile, as it would
have been impossible to cross the river, which was now in full flood;
therefore we traversed the difficult Ulughat Pass, which is open only
during the summer, and is dangerous for animals at the best of times.
A long stony valley led us past great glaciers hollowed into caves,
the entrances to which were fringed with stalactites of ice, and the
mountains seemed to close in more and more forbiddingly. I confess that
my heart almost failed me when we reached the foot of the pass and I
saw a series of zigzag tracks faintly marked on what seemed to me to
be the face of a precipice. It would have been impossible to negotiate
such a place on horseback; but yaks were in readiness, and I mounted
mine thankfully, with a grateful remembrance of the shaggy bull that
had carried me up the flank of Muztagh Ata.
But I was now to learn that there are yaks _and_ yaks. The animals
assigned to my brother and me strongly objected to the job, and,
looking at the path ahead, I did not wonder. They jibbed constantly,
refused to proceed, and, what was most unpleasant, took to backing
off the path and sliding in perilous fashion on to the long slopes of
shifting rubble. They seemed quite callous to the pulling of their
nose-ropes, and, though I clung to the peak of my saddle and vigorously
belaboured the shaggy sides of my mount, it returned to the track only
when it pleased. I became nervous on my brother’s account, because the
fastenings of his saddle broke twice, and if he had not realized in
time that he was sitting on the yak’s tail instead of in the middle
of its back, he would have fallen right over the precipice. He had
fastened the thong of his hunting-crop round the branching horns of
his _kutass_, thereby saving himself from disaster. To help matters
both of us imitated the cry with which the Kirghiz encouraged their
animals: “Halbin! Halbin! Halbin! Ha!” These men felt the height
considerably and rested at intervals, holding their heads in their
hands as they were suffering from mountain-sickness--the pass was over
16,000 feet--and one poor boy lay down early in the ascent, weeping
loudly and entirely refusing to proceed. At intervals they halted and
ate yellow squares of tough bread and dried plums, the yaks throughout
panting and gnashing their teeth instead of emitting their usual single
grunt of content. Near the crest of the pass the track lay among rocks
and crags, and I took my feet out of the stirrups and pressed them into
my mount’s neck; for yaks have an unpleasant habit of brushing close
to any obstacle on the path, and, owing to this, our baggage always
suffered considerably. I was riding behind a Kirghiz pony that had been
led in front of our party all the way, when suddenly this animal lost
its footing and tumbled back right on to my mount, dragging its master
along with it. If I had been on horseback we could not have avoided an
accident, but luckily yaks appear to have no nerves, and mine stood
firm and bore the shock right nobly.
Certainly it was a relief to reach the level ground at the top of
the pass, and to dismount while the Kirghiz knelt in prayer before a
big cairn of stones crowned with rag-laden sticks. I looked back to
enjoy the view of the immense glacier that filled the valley and the
peaks towering far above us; but suddenly I had a splitting headache
combined with nausea and faintness, which made me realize that I
must be experiencing a touch of the mountain-sickness of which I had
often read. I felt that I should soon recover if I could only leave
the height on which we were standing, and a sturdy native assisted me
down the steep track of shifting shale until my brother called to him
to halt, thinking I might faint outright. Hot tea was produced from
our thermos bottles, and after lying flat for a short time I revived,
and enquired of Iftikhar Ahmad, who was also supported by a servant
down the mountain-side, whether he, too, were suffering from _mal de
montagne_? He explained that he was merely recovering from the effects
of an opiate that he had taken to avoid the malady; but it seemed to me
that the remedy was almost worse than the illness.
Although we were over the pass proper, our troubles were not yet at an
end, for we had now to ride for a couple of hours along very steep and
narrow tracks, where a false step of our ponies on the shifting shingle
would have hurled us into the yellow water of the river roaring below,
and so into the next world. At last a breakneck descent brought us to
the bank of this river. We forded it and reached a group of _akhois_,
where we halted for the night and enquired into casualties. Daoud and
one of our grooms were quite lame; the chestnut had fallen and strained
itself, and all the animals were badly in need of a rest after their
exhausting experiences.
Consequently, next day’s march was a short one, but disagreeable; for
the track lay along the stony bed of one of the dried-up watercourses
that are so common throughout Chinese Turkestan. The valley widened out
and the air became milder and milder as we descended, until we reached
the first trees that we had seen for weeks. Willows, firs and poplars
clung to the hillsides, rising from patches of abundant scrub, tamarisk
with pink flower spikes, berberis with scarlet and orange berries and
aromatic juniper; wild roses were in bloom, and the swallow and a brown
bird with crimson under-wings flew and twittered.
Our baggage yaks were now discarded for camels, and when our caravan
reached camp I was distressed by the lugubrious cries of a she-camel
that resounded through the night. I found that her young one had
been unable to keep up on the march and had accordingly been left on
the road in the care of some Kirghiz, but would be rejoined by its
disconsolate mother on her return. Female camels are greatly attached
to their young, and I was told that, if deprived of them, they mourn
and lament for at least three months, so that the general idea of the
camel as an impassive and callous animal is quite wrong.
At the end of July we finally left the hills and rode some thirty miles
into the plain to Opal, our last halt before we reached Kashgar. The
march began down stony river-beds, valleys that widened out, and hills
that became lower and lower until on our left they vanished altogether,
while to our right they terminated in a bold cliff that rose sheer from
a great plain shimmering with light. Silver streaks meandering across
this plain indicated rivers, and beyond it we saw again the snowy
crests of the Celestial mountains, and the picturesquely serrated peaks
behind Miniol, while low hills, beautiful in pink and amber, ochre and
mauve, made a fairy vision in the early morning light.
Luckily for us, the weather was cloudy and inclined to rain, as
otherwise our sudden descent into the summer heat would have been
somewhat trying. At Opal we were in the midst of trees and irrigation,
and it was delightful to see golden wheat and barley ripe for the
sickle, waving crops of maize and millet, fields of linseed in bloom,
cotton in flower, and one of the six annual crops of lucerne in sheets
of vivid green.
[Illustration: KASHGAR MUSICIANS. _Page 170._]
Next day we were at Kashgar, and, much though I had enjoyed my
late experiences, the comfort and cleanliness of the Consulate
appealed strongly to us both, as did also the abundance of tomatoes,
cauliflowers, cabbages, egg-plants, cucumbers, pumpkins and carrots in
its well-stocked garden. We had returned to a season of plenty; for,
although the apricots and the first crop of figs were over, the melons
were at their prime, white, yellow, green and pink-fleshed, while the
small peaches and nectarines were ripe, to be followed by a larger
variety later, and the splendid grapes of many kinds and flavours were
almost ready. To the servants it could not have been so pleasant, since
we arrived in the middle of the great fast of Ramazan, half of which
they had escaped owing to being on a journey. During the following
fortnight they were very slack and tired, and, though we spared them as
much as we could, I felt ashamed to eat three good meals a day while
they might touch nothing, Daoud having to prepare our food, and Sattur
having to see us eat it. Certainly it is more trying in the hot weather
than in the cold of winter, but at any time of year it is not a light
matter to let no food pass the lips between dawn and sunset for a whole
lunar month. On the stretch of melon beds that lay below our terraced
garden the owners had built shelters of leafy boughs and sang and
played the whole night through, the noise of drums, pipes and bagpipes
not being particularly conducive to our slumbers. The flies had become
a nuisance, though I did my best to cope with them by making the doors
and windows of the kitchen and larder practically fly-proof, and I
found that carbolic sprinkled on a hot shovel stupefied the insects
with its pungent smoke, so that they could be swept up. But, as might
have been foreseen, nothing I could do was really efficacious, owing to
the _vis inertiae_ of the Oriental, and to his inherent incapacity to
shut doors properly.
We found a temperature of 98 degrees somewhat trying at first after
the uplands we had left, but we enjoyed some pleasant rides to gardens
outside the city, where we drank tea and ate fruit, and were offered
trays of pistachios. The shell of these nuts is usually split at
one end, and Mr. Bohlin quoted a Turki saying to the effect that “a
smiling man is like an open pistachio.” In every garden there was a mud
platform covered with felts or carpets, on which the natives lie, and
sometimes, instead of this, a large oblong wooden table with very short
legs. On these expeditions, Sattur followed in the carriage carrying
our tea, and we heard that the townsfolk thought we must esteem him
very highly to allow him to drive in state while we merely rode.
The crops of Indian corn were usually of the variety with big heads and
no “cobs,” our informant saying that both children and dogs steal and
eat the milky cobs to such an extent that it was hardly worth while to
grow them. This is the last crop to be reaped, and there is an anecdote
describing how one year the devil entered into a compact with a farmer
who was to give His Satanic Majesty everything _above_ ground. The wily
cultivator then sowed carrots, and the disappointed devil accordingly
stipulated that his share during the second year should be everything
_below_ ground; whereupon wheat was sown. Upon this, Satan demanded
at the beginning of the third year that the _top_ and _root_ of the
crops sown should be his. But the farmer again outwitted him by raising
Indian corn and taking all the cobs, which grow partway down the plants.
All along the roads, mixing with the lofty _durra_ plants, were the
fan-like hemp leaves which emitted a strong odour. The Chinese forbid
the cultivation of this plant, for _hashish_ has worse effects upon its
victims than opium; but the Kashgaris appear to pay little heed to the
prohibition and prepare the deadly drug from the pollen which falls
from the flowers upon the leaves. Much flax is grown, but only for the
oil which is obtained from the seeds, and the natives were amazed, and
even disbelieving, when Mr. Bohlin showed them linen made from its
fibre. The oil is squeezed out by means of a wheel turned by a horse in
a very narrow space, and when the poor animal gets dizzy, going round
and round, it is blindfolded, and in the end it often goes blind in
reality. On one occasion an intelligent Armenian brought a machine to
Kashgar to extract the oil, but the _mullas_ said it was unclean, and
as no one dared to buy the oil the man was ruined. The _mullas_ act
more or less as guardians of order. We were told that during the summer
there had been a fight about irrigation water--a most fruitful cause of
dissension in the East--with the result that several of the townsfolk
had been wounded. The priests, anxious to prevent the recurrence
of such a scandal, had visited every house in the city and broken
the _points_ of all the knives, a somewhat original way of checking
quarrels.
After being among the lusty, ruddy Kirghiz, the Kashgaris seemed to us
pale and underfed, and I was not surprised to hear that any illness
carries them off very quickly. Of course they were all suffering from
the effects of Ramazan, but their usual food, a thin broth mixed with
flour and piles of boiled macaroni, cannot be very sustaining. It was
a great relief to me when August 12 arrived, and the fast was over
and all our staff attended a service in the little mosque attached to
the Consulate. Poor Jafar Bai looked very old and worn out, and told
me that the torture of being unable to quench his thirst had been
terrible. He and the other servants came to salaam us clad in new, or
at all events clean, clothes, and to show their joy they beat a little
hand-drum during the entire day. The townsfolk in their new dresses
were a feast of colour for the eyes, and I remember one pretty little
girl in yellow silk with a crimson skull-cap worked in gold, while
another in a long magenta and green-patterned cotton held a big melon
in each hand and gazed at us under a jaunty green cap. Many were fond
of combining magenta and scarlet, which looked quite in place among the
green trees and crops, and their love of colour greatly added to the
charm of our daily rides.
Here are the words of one of the songs sung by children during the
month of Ramazan, which was translated for me, its charming tune having
haunted me. The chorus, however, struck me as somewhat ironical, for
the yearly fast presses with great severity on the poor, who are forced
to work for their livelihood, and cannot sleep all day and eat all
night as do the rich.
1
These thirty fasts are our guests,
Those who do not keep the fast are animals.
_Chorus._
Ramazan, the good month of Ramazan!
Holy and welcome Ramazan is the King of Months!
2
I come to your door singing praises of Ramazan,
May God in His mercy grant you a son to adorn your cradle.
_Chorus, etc._
3
I shall not weary of singing the praises of Ramazan,
Nor will I leave until you have given me seven cakes of bread.
_Chorus, etc._
4
On the tenth night of Ramazan Fate casts the lot of all men,
Therefore omit not to give alms to the poor on the eve of Destiny.
_Chorus, etc._